


like a laborious mosaic

by glaeson



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, Self-Harm, and, suicide ideation, warnings for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 07:57:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4052401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glaeson/pseuds/glaeson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You take your place beside her and lie down, place her head on your chest, let the thumping of your heart lull her to sleep. You don't say a word. You never do. You wrap your arms around her and trace patterns on her back, try to steady her shaking. Try to take away at least some of the pain. </p><p>You know all too well the crushing weight of what Clarke is carrying.</p><p>or</p><p>Lexa learns how to love a girl who can't love herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like a laborious mosaic

**Author's Note:**

> hello yes!! i have written a clexa thing finally!!!
> 
> i enjoyed the writing style i employed in my last fic, and i was like hey maybe i can do it again ?
> 
> warnings are in the tags, but i will say it again!!! please do not read if you may be triggered by suicide ideation and self-harm.
> 
> title is from a quote by anaïs nin, and work was inspired by [this](http://lupus-astra.deviantart.com/art/How-to-love-a-girl-who-can-t-love-herself-448050296) poem.

 

i.

 

Three months have passed since Mount Weather's fall, yet you can still see its horrors etched onto Clarke's face. 

This is the sixth time she's asked for you this week, and you do not know if it is something to dread or something to celebrate. You enter her quarters and find her as she always is before she falls asleep—curled up, shoulders shaking, sobs wracking her chest.

You take your place beside her and lie down, place her head on your chest, let the thumping of your heart lull her to sleep. You don't say a word. You never do. You wrap your arms around her and trace patterns on her back, try to steady her shaking. Try to take away at least some of the pain.

You know all too well the crushing weight of what Clarke is carrying.

“There were children, Lexa,” Clarke chokes out, and she twists her hands into your shirt. “ _Children._ ”

You blink, lick your lips. It's the first time she's spoken to you since your betrayal.

You don't say a word, because it's not what she needs. Not from you.

Instead, you tilt her head up so you're looking at her. The sky that was once in her eyes is long gone, and she is so, so tired. Her cheeks are gaunt, her face pale. You lick your lips again.

You lean close, close enough until you can feel Clarke's broken breaths as your own, but you decide against it.

She does not resist, but she has not forgiven you.

So you shift and place a kiss on her cheek, move Clarke's head so she's leaning on your chest again, and bring your lips to her temple.

You hold her until the sobbing stops, hold her until the gaps between her breaths are longer than yours, hold her until her fists unclench from your shirt.

You hold her until the sun rises.

Because you know that someday, Clarke will, too.

  
ii.

 

Tonight, you feel brave, so you don’t wait until it’s well into the night before you go to Clarke. The moon is barely risen when you find her.

She is seated on the grass, her back to you, her head tilted up to the sky. Her arms are wrapped around her knees, and it’s a delight for you to see her when her entire body isn’t trembling.

You take a seat beside her. “Hello, Clarke.”

She turns her head, smiles, however small it is. “Hey, Commander Lexa.”

Your nose scrunches up—you’ve never been _Commander_ to her, always just _Lexa_ , and—oh.

In your rush to find her, you’d forgotten to take your armor off, and you notice that paint still streaks your face. You laugh. “I’m sorry—it slipped my mind.”

“It’s okay,” Clarke says. “You look great like this, so. I don’t really mind.”

Clarke tilts her head up to look at the sky again, the light purple fading into dark blue fading into black. The stars have begun to come out, and you see that Clarke shivers.

You take your coat off—you don’t need it, anyway, you can cast off all formalities with Clarke—and wrap it around her shoulders. She smiles, mumbles her thanks.

“Sometimes I wish I was back up there,” you hear her whisper.

“On your ship?” you ask.

“It wasn’t a ship, it was—” Clarke inhales. “It was an Ark.”

“On your Ark, then.”

“No, no, not on the Ark,” Clarke says. “As a star.”

“A star?”

“I was once told that every soul becomes a star after death,” she replies, face still to the heavens. “I remember looking out the window of my prison cell, trying to see if I could spot which one was my dad.”

You pause, knowing that you must tread carefully. 

After, you say, “There are too many already.”

“Stars?”

You nod. “When you were on your Ark, you were just another speck in the sky, to me. And then you fell, and you’re hardly a simple speck anymore.”

“Lexa,” she says, turning to face you.

“If you become a star, Clarke,” you say. “You would be forgotten the moment people turn away from the sky. That—that’s not who you are.”

You see Clarke clench her fists, her knuckles turning white, and you reach out and grab them, take her hands into yours.

“You are human, Clarke. And a leader. Sometimes, difficult decisions are made.” You let go of her hands, and purse your lips. “You must learn to forgive yourself.”

She doesn’t say anything, just stares at you and blinks, so you take it as your cue to leave.

You stand up, dust off your legs, not bothering with your coat anymore. You have many more.

When you begin to walk away, you feel a hand on your wrist. You turn, and Clarke says, “Wait.”

There’s something in her expression, something searching, and it makes your insides twist and keeps your feet planted on the ground. You see her swallow.

“Stay.”

You tilt your head to the side, smile. 

“Of course.”

  
iii.

 

Nowadays, Clarke spends the night with you.

Some of your people take notice, others don’t; either way, you can’t find it in yourself to really care.

She still cries herself to sleep, some nights, others, she wakes up in a cold sweat screaming Cage’s name. But the nights where Clarke sleeps right through have become less and less rare, and it makes you grin when you wake up and see her asleep, her mouth parted and not a wrinkle between her eyebrows.

Those days, you treasure, because one night, this happens:

You wake up to the sound of glass shattering.

You notice that a warmth is missing from your side, your chest—Clarke isn’t with you anymore.

“Clarke,” you call, voice still thick with sleep. You clear your throat, and try again. “Clarke?”

There is a hiss, and a gasp, and you turn your head towards the sound. “Clarke?”

You stand up, and walk to where she is. The moon provides little light, but you see her. 

You see her, sitting cross legged; a shard of glass in her hand, and a broken mirror in the other. There is blood dripping from her fist, from her thighs. She is crying; you rush to her side.

“Clarke.” You clear her face of her hair, tucking the stray strands behind her ears. “What are you doing?”

Her face is blank. She doesn’t answer you, just stares at her reflection in the mirror in her hand.

“Stop this,” you say, and you reach out for the piece of glass in her hand. Her fist tightens around it, and you see more blood ooze out. You flinch.

You watch her as she moves the shard to her thigh, and cuts a straight line across. Another hiss, another gasp.

“Enough!” you roar, grabbing her wrist, and she freezes.

Clarke turns, looks at you. 

She sobs, then, drops the mirror and the piece of glass, and falls into your arms. You rub her back, hush her. You tear a piece of your clothes, and wrap it around Clarke’s leg. 

You push her away from you, gently, tear another piece of your shirt and wrap it around her palm. Clarke sniffles, but lets out a small laugh. “This is an interesting turn of events.” You snort.

Once you’re finished, Clarke picks up the mirror. She looks at herself and gives a small, sad smile. “Look at me,” she says, wiping a tear from under her eye. “I’m broken.”

“No,” you reply, picking up the piece of broken glass and slotting it back into its place in the mirror. 

“You’re mending.”

  
iv.

 

You discover Clarke’s passion for art.

She paints whatever she sees—the trees, the clouds, her friends. You find her portrait of Bellamy quite funny: his mouth is upturned in a smirk, and Clarke said of it, “When we first got here, that was the only expression on his face.”

Clarke is drawing, now, as she sits on a jagged piece of rock overlooking the stream. You sit ten feet away from her, picking up pebbles and throwing them into the water.

As you watch the current sweep them away, you ask, “Do you know how to swim, Clarke?”

She doesn’t look away from her work when she says, “I don’t. We didn’t have enough water for that on the Ark.”

“You should learn,” you say. “I can teach you. It’s a critical skill for survival, here.”

“So I’ve learned,” Clarke tells you. “I almost drowned, once. I was with Anya, then—she saved me.”

You look down at your hands, and smile. “Anya saved me, too.”

The two of you sit in silence as you let her continue her work, the only sounds coming from the gushing of the stream and the Clarke’s strokes on her canvas. 

“All done,” she says after a few minutes, and stands up. You do the same, dusting the dirt off your legs. “Let’s go, Lexa?”

You nod, and begin to lead her back to your camp.

“May I see your drawing?” you ask her as your boots crunch into the dried leaves of the woods.

“Um.” Clarke licks her lips. “Okay,” she says, and hands you her work.

You take it in your hand, and look, expecting to see an illustration of the stream or the trees or the sky.

Instead, it’s a portrait of you—sitting, as you were a while ago, but Clarke had drawn you in full battle armor, including the paint and the jewel on your forehead. Your breath catches in your throat. There is life in the drawing; Clarke has made you look like a goddess, like a warrior, prowling, ready to spring at a moment’s notice.

“This is lovely,” you tell her, stopping in your tracks. “May I keep this?”

“Of course,” she says. “It’s yours if you want it.”

“Thank you, Clarke.”

Clarke smiles. “You’re very welcome.”

Later, when Clarke is busy talking to Octavia, you run to your best artist and tell him what you need. He replies with a “Yes, _Heda_ ,” and he bows when you dismiss him.

The following morning he is ready, and you take a look at his work. 

It’s Clarke, standing tall, her hair blowing in the wind, her eyes like a wolf’s and her smile like a tiger’s. You see a woman that can make entire empires fall to their knees without saying a word.

You thank him, and quietly leave the painting where you know Clarke would see it.

You catch her smiling, and you know that that’s what you do this for.

  
v.

 

Clarke has a laugh like the sun. 

It bubbles from her throat and lilts through the air, and you decide it is something you want to hear over, and over, and over.

Clarke laughs, and the smile on her face is one that could bring you to your knees, if you aren’t careful.

And when Clarke is like this, with you, there is no trace of the girl who had come back from war with a soul more dead than the lives she took. There is no trace of the girl whose skin turned to paper and whose bones threatened to snap. There is no trace of the girl who cried herself to sleep every night.

This is the Clarke you know; she is whole, and she is yours.

This is the Clarke you love.

  
vi.

 

Your fingers work their way through Clarke’s hair, and you’ve braided your own so many times that you hardly think about it anymore. Her hair isn’t tangled and messy, it isn’t like yours, so you manage to finish in considerably less time.

“I’m done, Clarke,” you say, and shift so you’re not sitting on your feet anymore.

Clarke turns and faces you, pats her head gently, as if afraid to ruin your work. “I feel like a grounder now,” she says, grinning. “All I need is warpaint.”

The fire in your tent burns slowly, casting dancing shadows across the room, and you look at her with a frown. She should never feel like one of you, with her hair like sunlight and her eyes like the sky. She is not of this earth—and it isn’t even an exaggeration.

“You are beautiful,” you tell her.

You see the tips of her ears go red, and she says, “Thank you. For the braids, I mean, but um, for that, as well. You are—you are, too. Beautiful.”

A laugh escapes your lips. “You’re too kind, Clarke.”

Clare pauses, then says, “I mean it, though.” She looks at you, her gaze steady. “You really are.”

When you look at her, the same, searching look is in her eyes again, the same one that keeps you still and makes your insides twist. 

She takes a deep breath, places a finger to your jaw, and leans in.

You meet her halfway.

This one is different from the one before you two were off to war; Clarke has purpose, this time, presses firmly against your lips. Her tongue slides against your bottom lip, and you let her in with a sigh.

Clarke pushes you down so you’re lying on your back, and she steadies herself by putting her forearms on either side of your head. You like how Clarke seems to know when your skin feels too tight, you like how Clarke seems to know when to place a hard kiss to your jaw or nip at the spot between your neck and your shoulder. You like how Clarke maps out your body underneath her fingertips, and when she digs into your hips you let out a whine.

She brings your lips together again. “Shh, Commander.”

You laugh against her mouth. “Exactly the point. I’m the Commander. I don’t hush for anyone.” You flip Clarke over so you’re on top, move your knee in between her legs to prove your point.

Her head tilts back, her eyes close, and you take it as a chance to kiss her down the column of her neck.

She undresses herself as you make your way down, down, down, trailing kisses across her collarbone, down to her chest, then to her stomach.

It’s not long before your tongue delves into her, and Clarke breathes out your name, broken and sounding like a prayer. You feel like your heart will burst with every beat it takes.

Her hand tangles in your hair, urging you to go harder, deeper, faster. You do her bidding, and once your nose bumps against her clit, Clarke is _gone._

You replace your tongue with your fingers, let her ride out her high, and you bring her head up to look at her.

“You are beautiful,” you say for the second time that night.

You like how Clarke’s bare skin feels against yours when she leans on your chest to go to sleep. You like how Clarke is clutching onto your arm, afraid to let go, as if you’re the only one keeping her alive.

You like how Clarke mumbles a sleepy, “I love you,” one she surely won’t remember in the morning, before she drifts off.

  
vii.

 

You wake up the next morning, blinking against the sun streaming through.

You wake up, and there is Clarke, picking her clothes off the floor and looking like everything you’ve ever wanted. The sun shines just right so it makes Clarke look like she has a halo around her bright, bright hair. Her bones don’t jut out of her skin like they used to anymore, and her skin has more colour in it than it used to.

Then you remember what she had told you just before she fell asleep. You sit up on your bed.

“I love you,” you say, and you do.

Clarke turns around, surprised. She gives you a sad smile. “You shouldn’t.” She puts her shirt back on.

“I love you,” you say, and you do, and she needs to know.

“Don’t say that,” she says again, but the smile isn’t sad anymore—it travels to her eyes, and they light up, just the tiniest bit.

“ _Ai hod yu in_ ,” you say, and you do, because some days, she can’t do it herself.

Even if you think those days have passed.

She walks over to you, and kisses you, light and soft. Your heart flutters in your chest.

“Thank you,” she says, voice quiet and sincere.

It’s not what you want it to be; it’s not what it could be.

But—

It’s a start. 

 


End file.
